


What's Done is Done

by MarthaBug0192



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Bottom Ramsay Bolton, Burns, Candles, Castration, Cock & Ball Torture, Dry Sex, F/M, Hermaphrodites, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lactation Kink, M/M, Multi, Murder, Necrophilia, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Rape, Revenge, Sadism, Swords, Torture, Urination, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarthaBug0192/pseuds/MarthaBug0192
Summary: Ramsay does get Sansa back in his room, but waking up to her and Jon's revenge isn't what he'd had in mind. AU Jon helps Sansa realize her sadism and have her turn at pleasure. FMxM warnings for torture, whipping and referenced spanking, burning, sword impalement restraint, revenge anal rape with candles with some sphincter action, oral rape, anti-rape device, threatened castration, flashback of hermaphrodite (big clit) shaming, flashbacks of canon rape and fingering, urination in vagina, mild scat and vomit, dry sex, violence and blood. Ends with necrophilia.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Jon Snow, Ramsay Bolton/Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	What's Done is Done

**Author's Note:**

> Okay to clear things up. A woman doesn't have to be pregnant to lactate, it can be from hormones or chronic stimulation. Female hermaphroditism isn't as rare as people think but nowadays there are more treatments and we're still not socially allowed to talk about it yet for some reason. As for the rest, you'll have to figure out for yourself.

_His callused hand cupped her cheek. That's the moment she realized, this had happened. Man and wife._

_Sansa remembered to close her eyes when his lips pressed against hers. She clenched up as he sucked her bottom lip, and for all she knew that would be the last movement she would make on her own whim. She was right._

Now it was her turn to tell him, "Take off your clothes." It came out more gentle than she'd imagined, but Jon would stay at the foot of Ramsay's bed and allow Sansa to pull Ramsay by his chest.

Ramsay's face fluttered. The dead of night was grainy, their demands were merely white noise, however he did know his wife's face, like any owner would. "So, my wife couldn't deny her duties." He looked over at Jon. And she brought somebody to watch.

Sansa quivered, her vulva beginning to gush as it's been taught to do. In order to avoid the pain, the burning, stretching, slamming.

She clenched his nightshirt. "Take off your clothes." She didn't give him a moment to struggle before saying, "I'd hate to ask you a second time."

"You first." Ramsay trailed his hand on her shoulder, slowly reaching inside her coat. Her nipples were still stiff from the commute, her tits chilled and a little sticky. All the layers under the coat had wet spots. Oh, everything he's taught her. Even after all this time she had not stopped lactating for him. It's been far too long since he's swirled his thumb around them. Pinched them. Sucked her hard into submission.

Sansa snatched his hand. She clenched his fist between her small hands, gasping as she tried to go tighter than he's ever grabbed her _. He wiggled three of his thick, hardened fingers between her dry lips, prodding at her vaginal entrance until his sharp fingernails became wet and cold. "I love you… I love a good wife like you." Even though she would never believe him if she happened to hear him over her dramatic cries. She was such a good wife, oh, so nice and tight against his bony knuckles. As he forced his pinky in and dug his thumbnail against her urethra, his foreskin tightened around his pulsing cock head. He imagined he was inside of her._

His knuckles cracked and she couldn't help but imagine the bones shattering into pieces and Ramsay lurching over in pain. She squeezed harder when he sat up and clenched her neck.

The original intent was to avenge her family. But tonight, she would avenge herself. And Jon would help until the very end.

Jon ran over. He pulled the bastard sword out from his coat and prodded the base of Ramsay's neck.

Ramsay turned his head up at Jon. He perked up to be almost at eye level, his face hot and smug. But Jon wasn't muttering, his eyes didn't dart back and forth like Sansa's. The sword was not shaking between them.

"I see you have brought my wife back, where she belongs." Ramsay smiled back at Sansa. "I knew you couldn't stray away for long."

With a fluid motion of the sword, Ramsay was thrust forward to the middle of the bed. Sansa leaped back with a gasp. Ramsay smugly drew his hand from Sansa to pet his pierced spine. He scooped up the cold red soup, playing with it as it dried underneath his fingernails. It's a shame it wasn't his wife's blood, but who's to say that wasn't coming.

His knees shook as he tried to stay up, still taller than Sansa, but completely shadowed over by Jon, who was even larger when his arm was bent and flexed underneath his coat. He brushed Ramsay's lips with the tip of his sword, before digging it into his Adam's apple. Ramsay gulped, but it was a reflex.

Jon growled. "This is no time for games, Ramsay." He lowered his voice when Sansa began shaking at the foot of the bed. They were doing this, they were really doing this. No room for words, it was time to give Sansa her Purity back. "Now, do what you have been told. Or else this sword may go in places it does not belong."

He slowly circled Ramsay, keeping the sword at his neck and back.

"Well," Ramsay said between the gulps, "might I fancy a sword of my own, and have me two wives." He leered at his first one. And do a little, might I say, repairs. It is time now, Sansa?"

A fire grew in the pit of her stomach. Her entire pelvis was swarmed with flies, as she felt a phantom hand squeeze at her vulva. The phantom fingers crawled up to pinch… the throbbing, sometimes burning bulge beneath her loincloths...

_Her legs were pinned up for the routine inspection. For some reason her pelvis still squirmed helplessly after an entire week of this, but he could tell she's trying to keep her clenched fists collected._

_He would involve her by asking her what something was, how something felt. Did she like it? He wouldn't spend much time on her torn vagina, he already knew what that was worth. His wife's urethra always burned, laden with red splotches, flourishing with bacteria from their mixed juices and chronically held urine._

_An inch above it there was the throbbing. How could anyone not notice, how could she pretend it wasn't there? The musky pink clit was at least an inch long, slightly rubbery due to constantly rubbing up against her many layers of clothes. No matter how big it was, it would never amount to his eight inch staff. He smiled up at his blushing wife as she attempted to hide her face, knowing full well this was not normal for a wife._

_Knowing that he was going to ask, "Now, what is this?" Each time, she would shed a tear because she didn't know either._

_Ramsay tickled it with freshly cut fingernails, prodding underneath the hood to find the top and run his nails along it like a sword. She'd quiver and beg, sometimes very loudly, always dry. His V fingers would pull the clit upward, as big as it could go, to show the extent of her condition. The hood would tighten up around everything that needed to go in order for her to be a good wife. <i>_

_"By the time of our anniversary," he'd say to her, "it would be nice to have this taken care of, would it not?" But there was no right answer. He wasn't sure if their anniversary would be the actual date, simply a date for her to fear._

_Ramsay is a man of fine power, and with power comes the responsibility of conservation. Patience. Allowing his wife to have one mild form of torture at a time, only applying a new one when she had finally stopped crying and thrashing. It had taken months since their first night together for her to get used to passionate intercourse and to realize her husband's rights, but thankfully Ramsay was patient. Ramsay was slow. And this was only emotional torture, an Innovative idea, at least for now. Her tantrums were her only Mercy, besides for the statue watching at the door. Little did she know it, but those were her rights as a wife, and one day she would be happy._

"Well, Sansa?" 

Sansa trembled, her eyes shimmering with tears. Ramsay knew that this was not a tantrum although it may seem as such, it was actually a sign of agreement. Her contribution. She was ready for that idea to come alive.

Jon stabbed straight down Ramsay's back, immediately splitting the shirt and scraping his stiff skin. Jon slowly dragged the sword out, ripping even more skin and muscle in the process. Ramsay held his breath to avoid wincing as the holes in his skin began erupting with blood.

With a nod from Jon, Sansa crawled over. She grabbed each back of Ramsay's shirt and crushed his shoulders inward to get it off him. She rolled it up, but as she was about to throw it, she paused. Her tiny lips pursed so tightly they turned white, her eyebrows furrowed harder than they ever have, and she whipped him in the face.

Ramsay's face and neck were numb, redder than Sansa's jiggling cheeks had ever become during a spanking. His eyes crept up towards Jon, who was watching in lust.

Sansa yanked Ramsay's face closer. She snapped a few of the shirt's hooks against his mouth. Across his cheek, then up his entire face. With her arm in the air to whip again, she noticed a blotch on the fabric near a bloody eye hook. A pink smear underneath his nostril. He turned to muffle his groaning, to reveal a gaping hole where his septum should be and sagging nostrils.

She threw the fabric into the corner, which still had her little wooden chair in it. Her hands plastered over her shocked face. But what was done had been done.

Ramsay smiled. Only if she knew what she was in for after all this foolishness was over, apparently she did not. She has been spoiled with Jon. Her tender little asshole has had time to heal to the way it used to be.

Ramsay's calloused hands came together. He swung his arms back to knock the sword out of Jon's hands, but Jon clenched it tighter and thrusted Ramsay back by his hair. 

Ramsay jerked away. He was a lot stronger than the two of them gave him credit for. This was nothing, compared to what he's gotten from Sansa. And what he was going to do to her now with Jon watching. His shoulders tensed to stop the shaking in his back. He sprang forward, 

snatching Sansa up by the wrist. He squeezed her neck and jaw, grinding the bones together, before throwing her down so hard that her head smacked the floor.

Jon grabbed Ramsay's head, nearly snapping his neck as he threw him down onto the bed. He did what should have been done from the start - he rose the sword just slightly above Ramsay's gut. Trying to avoid Sansa's eyes, he slammed the sword into Ramsay's rib cage. He rammed the blade in tighter to pin Ramsay to the bed, which held most of the blood in his inferior vena cava besides for a few small streams that made him light headed. Desperate gasps scratched in Ramsay's throat and his quivering hands crept to his chest to cover the spurting blood.

Sansa hovered over the bed. Her blurred eyes were glued onto Ramsay's body. It was as if she'd never seen anyone become defeated before. Even her father's death - and Rickon - and those flayed, begging bodies - suddenly meant nothing to her. The man who had claimed her, not only publicly but internally, is now claimed by the steel used to kill white walkers. For once she could breathe without feeling a squeeze in her tubes. He was right; she was happy with the way this marriage had become.

There was a rush in her belly. Similar to the one in her head and neck. Hot, tingly, pouring out of her spine through her pelvis. Even her asshole was puckered in amusement staring at this bleeding man who didn't have the breath to groan in pain.

Tonight, she would make half the room unlit. Sansa’s small feet crept to the corner parallel to her chair. The floor grew colder, radiating around her knees and thighs under her sheer dress, as she stripped the candelabra of its largest blazing candle. 

On her way to the bed, she stopped and gulped. She remembers - the other burning. <i>A sweet, aching chill when the flame would brush her skin. It pitted into her tissue before she could realize how hot it was becoming, before her reflexes could save her. Ramsay was lucky, maybe just smart, when the creases of her knuckles and elbows naturally concealed the rippled skin that was never allowed to heal. If she was lucky, or smart enough to obey, it was a tiny poke where it wouldn’t matter. Her inner thighs, breasts, belly, all hardened with patches of red scars.<i>

A glare of approval from Jon. Another tremble from Sansa. 

The wick flared brighter as Sansa brought it closer to Ramsay. The blue flame broke straight through Ramsey's pant leg and stocking. He scrambled for breath, his heart racing harder against the gunky steel blade. 

The same heat radiated through Sansa's cervix. It squeezed so hard that there was friction without even being touched.

She pulled the candle away, to see a crater in his skin and only a few shards of hair.

It was nearly impossible to resist the urge. She dashed the flame along his cramped up toes, watching them reflexively dance around trying to retract into the destroyed stockings.

Jon asked, "How does it feel?"

Sansa's little cheeks turned pink like the ends of her hair when she pulled the candle back. She shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't, but she was.

It felt good. It felt swell. Even physically, swell.

Ramsey could barely look him in the eyes. Just keeping his eyes open was as physically taxing as his wounds. The both of them knew that this wasn't right, however, and that's the only weapon he needed.

Jon was giving her permission. Keep`going. Make him feel what he’s made you feel. Feel how he felt on that lonely wispy night, and every afternoon and midnight after that.

She shoved the flame on the crotch of his pants. Wiggling and twisting as the seam disintegrated, exposing his balls to the piercing heat. His pubic hair, caked with sweat, instantly pulled the flames towards the skin. Any attempt to scream came out as a squeak, smaller than a mouse. Sansa felt big, she was big.

The hairless, partially skinless, balls smacked around reflexively as he twitched away from Sansa.

He winced. As helplessly as she imagined herself having done. She's never heard him wince before. The way the wheezing crackled in his throat was not part of the scene she'd imagined.

_Two nights ago, rolling around in the heat of the blankets, cinching her eyes shut to avoid the little candle glow. Imagining, waiting for this._

_Jon was going to pull through, she knew that. It hadn't crossed her mind how painful this was actually going to be -- she was too innocent then._ "I'm ready to enjoy it."

Ramsey stared daggers through his drooping eyelids. Jon, with his massive cold hand crushing Ramsay's cheekbones, was the only thing that was clear. The pulling twisting pain, numbered out by the oozing of stiffening blood, was as blurred as his wife. Even the flame was becoming a blind spot and his eyes nearly strained out of the socket trying to figure out where it was headed next.

For good measure, she trailed the flame up his inner thigh. Very slowly to open up his pants, jolting lightly with each bump of skin. His testicles felt ready to shatter as they reflexively tried to retract into the body. With that, Sansa pulled the candle back and gave him a good slap. His compressed face had no more room to clench and tiny cracks ran through his teeth.

She cooed like a dove, "I see you're enjoying yourself."

Ramsay's legs clenched. The little energy he had left was being wasted attempting to reflexively writhe away from the searing, of the candle wax that was sticking to his groin. "You cunt."

Jon ripped Ramsey's jaw open. He snatched up the drooling tongue and yanked it up as far as it would go. A few drops of blood began to boil up from under his tongue. They both stared into each other's eyes as he and Jon both knew his frenulum was torn, probably obliterated, and anything beyond that point what's completely meaningless.

The blood burbled out of his mouth when she used the flame to open up the entire crotch of his pants. 

Without skipping a beat, she blew the flame out, gave a few merciful drops of spit to his hairy ass, and began to prod the tip in. She ignored his meager kicks begging for mercy, which was mostly to end his humiliation at this point. She just continued to wiggle, <i>pushing into the wispy raw tissue, until progress was made. Past the whole that failed to clench tightly enough, through many velvety layers that pushed outwards unsuccessfully, as deep as it would go.<i> Sansa dragged the candle out, which was completely dry besides for a lace of mucus and the flexible layer of wax that was molding into an odd shape.

 _In, out, in, out. In, and out a little bit faster. The mucus had a pink glow to it and it smelled grainy, sweet, like the tears that streamed._ It was so natural. The shit was caking up, with many chunks forming a ring right next to her fingers. It made it easier to slide the candle in up to her fingertips, completely disappearing.

Sansa repeated, the same way he would always do if she didn't respond. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

The beaming in the pit of her gut, lower than she's ever felt it before. Her pussy tingling so hard that if she didn't release pressure soon, the 

nerves were probably going to melt off.

Just like Ramsey on some of those nights. The victim sprawled out helplessly on the bed, the time was just right. The pressure was pent-up, grappling to find a way out. The victim was unable. The victim sat there and took it.

Jon would make sure of that.

He forced Ramsey's jaw around to smear the blood and get the spit running. Ramsey wouldn't dare to hide behind his eyelids, at least until he realized exactly what Jon's stiff cock felt like against his lips. The entire cock, an inch and a half longer than Ramsay's at full mast and a little wider, was barely going to fit. After having seen Sanaa's mouth stretched to capacity, there was no doubt.

Jon gave a few pumps, spreading his precum with the tight skin. The white drizzle was bitter, meaty, thick as it dripped from Jon's foreskin into the creases of Ramses lips. There was plenty to go around.

"Before we begin," Jon reminded him, "she asked you a question."

Ramsay answered the question by digging his fingers into the sides of the bed. There was no escape. There was no right answer.

Jon pushed Ramsay's lips over his teeth and went straight in. Ramsay's mouth was warm, very tight as it naturally protested. His uvula dashed around Jon's tip and became weak after a few rough pumps. He couldn't successfully gag, the tongue was ripped further and further, his cheeks eventually stopped tightening up, eventually causing his mouth to be loose and almost useless. Besides for the chapping lips and teeth which were lubed up with many tiny spurts of pink vomit and bile, solely for Jon's pleasure.

Ramsay's gut was instantly bloated and the loose vomit in his abdomen was pumped around by the candle and his writhing.

Jon asked Ramsay how it felt. Again, there was no right answer.

Only a sinking in Ramsay's throat, when Sansa said, "Oops."

When Ramsay realized the candle was no longer being pulled out. It had been sucked in. Forever lost inside him, bulging harder than it did when it was in his ass, stabbing his gut and prostate at an angle. He was smothered from the inside out as a wave of dizziness filled the room.

Jon pulled out. He smacked Ramsay's cheek hard enough to instantly form a faint black eye. It kept him in reality. Made the vomit leak from his mouth and keep the airway open just enough to stay conscious.

His wife's pussy wasn't something to miss, especially after so long.

Jon held Ramsay's head up by the neck. He slapped him, three times before Ramsay opened his eyes to witness his wife's beauty.

She'd already stripped down from her multiple layers, as bare as the day she was born besides for the unruly tufts of hair on her slit and the unscarred parts of her thighs. That would be the lubrication. The only thing he'd enjoy now, despite always scraping her skin with the razor to get it all off. Her swollen vulva would brush him for a few minutes as she maneuvered around his inflamed scrotum and struggled to get his soft shrunken cock positioned with the tip slightly into her vagina. She pulled his foreskin back achingly tight, but it didn't really make a difference, it was only giving his tip a head start and exposing his inner skin and frenulum.

"You've wanted me. Now have me."

His wife's face and the entire room lit up with black and gold stars, before the tears flushed over. The pain cut his cock into multiple pieces. A stream of hot urine broke, searing the shards of foreskin, while the blood ran too quickly to glue it all together. It gushed from her pussy, moistening her clit while she prodded. She rubbed faster, pressing hard into her pubic bone when she saw her fingers glazed over with red urine. 

Three stained metal clasps were shifted out of her vagina, peeking from her pale lips with thin streams running down.

Sansa's hips straddled as her hand squeezed his useless slab, feeding the rest of the shaft into the teeth. Blood continued to pour, and so did the vomit, as the middle teeth drew his foreskin in and snagged holes into his head. The more she moved, the more he writhed or even exhaled, the more her anti-rape contraption ate. The more skin it'd rip off, slowly digging towards the urethra and scrotum. Eventually the bleeding would stop, when the device held on too tightly to allow circulation.

Jon hovered behind her. He wrapped his warm arms around her chest and belly, tenderly working his way down to her hair. One hand encompassed hers to keep a steady rhythm, the other parted along her slit to massage her internal clit. He pushed the clumps of blood around, sticking her vaginal walls together to build up more pressure.

Sansa's throat rolled with moans. She muffled her mouth with her tongue to avoid overpowering Ramsay's desperate cries. Who would have guessed sexual pleasure could be this… Wonderful? Captivating? Corrupting? 

Sansa's body began to surge. Her back arched, her hair knotting up into Jon's shoulder while he held her tighter. Her diaphragm jolted against her lungs and her moans faded into little wheezes. The rush numbed off her entire torso as her pelvis pulled in on itself. Her clit and urethra pulsed into her fingers, as sore as the sun that began to peek into the windows.

Her empty gray eyes strayed down towards Ramsay. His tears had stopped. Eyes had become cold and dry, as well as the blood on his shirt. Lips no longer quivering, had no longer beating back and forth, as still as exposed parts of his heart.

Jon held her, filling the void with gruff breaths. 

  
  



End file.
